


we’re just a million miles from home

by starlight_in_the_gloom



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, a qunari dreadnought is actually something that can be so personal, for flavor, im not on it anymore but it’s for u guys, no beta. in death sacrifice, this ones dedicated to the undeadw0od discord, will include hints of widobrave and widomauk, will tag more as they appear those r just the important ones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_in_the_gloom/pseuds/starlight_in_the_gloom
Summary: Beau didn’t think she’d be spending her 20th birthday as a newly minted Viddathari in the sweltering belly of a Dreadnought, but here she was.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Fjord/Jester Lavorre
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been thinking of this for months and we’re finally writing it! Not much yet, but more to come.

So, Beauregard was raised on fairytales.

Everyone is raised on those in Tevinter. Their culture is practically rooted in it. She’s not exactly unique. The thing is, she was raised on the story her dad told her.

Thoreau Lionett was Soporati who came into magical ability in his childhood, the first of his family. Contrary to common folklore, not every commoner mage rises into the rank of legend. He still wasn’t good enough to marry the girl he loved, and he was piss poor. What was he to do but seek out a witch of the wilds?

She told him where to find his fortune, and she told him he’d marry that girl, and she told him of the son his wife would bear. Thoreau wouldn’t amount to more than a merchant in his lifetime, but she told him that his son would be a powerful magister, just wait and see.

He walked back to civilization on bloody feet and, years later, was a wealthy merchant of wine, the finest in the Imperium, he boasted. Not long after that, he married. And not long after that, Clara Lionett bore a child.

Beauregard isn’t exactly the son he wanted. So fucking sorry, dad. But the man held out hope, hired the best tutors he could afford, had her a training staff built out of Viridium and Jade, and watched and waited.

This is where she really disappointed him. The years passed and Beau got lanky, and rebellious, and mean. The years passed, and Thoreau got nervous, and frustrated, and  _ mean _ . When she hit 16, it became blatantly clear that she was not going to be joining the magistrate any time soon. 

She was damn good with that staff—her training paid off—and she was damn smart, and she was a hard worker, but it  _ wasn’t enough _ . Not for him.

If she wasn’t going to be good enough for him, not ever, then fuck that. Beau turned all that useless insecurity into rage, and she turned that rage into an agenda.

_ And that went well, _ she thought, wheezing a raspy, copper-tasting laugh. Water lapped at her ankles.  _ So smart, aren’t you, Beau? Bet Dad’s real proud of you now. _

The elf slammed her back against the wall, their staff grating against Beau’s in a way that made her ears ring. She grit her teeth and shoved back, but they were damn strong, and jammed their knee up into her gut. Beau gasped, vision flickering. 

The elf pulled back and she nearly crumpled, leaning on her staff, trying to stay standing while the water rose. She paused. Calculated. Let her eyes flutter shut and fell back, head lolling.

Someone shouted in Qun and the elf shouted back. Beau watched her through half lidded eyes while she shouted back, and though they were reeling back to strike her again, they clearly didn’t consider her enough of a threat to ignore their pal.

Beau took a breath, and whipped her staff up, striking the elf in the kneecap. She snarled, attention back to Beau, just in time for her to punch the elf in face. Either her nose or Beau’s knuckles cracked from the impact, but she was too full of adrenaline to tell which. She lunged for the door, dropping her staff.

“Fucking kids,” The elf cursed _ — _ and then pain, white-hot cracking against the back of her skull, and then nothing.

  
  


Beau woke up slowly, head pounding. Was she hungover? She felt hungover. She must have had one hell of a night. The kind of night where she got spectacularly drunk, and into a good fight. Two good fights.

She became aware of the sound of someone else, breathing. She shifted. “Tori?” She called out sleepily.

Icy cold water poured over her head and shoulders and her eyes snapped open. She spluttered, suddenly wide awake.

“ _ Vishante kaffes _ —”

“Good, you’re finally awake.” Said a bored voice.

She squinted, water collecting in her eyelashes and blurring her vision. Her hands her bound. She was in a chair? Shit.

The memory of the previous night came rushing back to her and she froze, heart hammering.

“You know,” she said slowly. “I was already awake. You didn’t have to dump fucking water on me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Uh, no?”

“For saving your life, Lionett. Show some gratitude.”

Beau blinked rapidly, water dripping down her cheeks, and was finally able to make out the elf who’d beat her soundly the night before, dimly lit by a lantern. It swung bars of yellow light over her strong jaw and piercing eyes, the lighting shifting as the room swayed. Swayed. She was in a ship, then.

“Eh, fuck you.” She spat a stream of saliva and dried blood onto the damp floorboard. The elf’s face didn’t even twitch.

“Let’s make this short. I’ve got places to be, and you’ve got two choices. You’re going to join the Qun, or you won’t.”

Beau blinked. “Not much of a fucking choice. Here’s a fun fact about me, I have a problem with authority. Not joining your dumb club. Go to hell.”

The elf nodded and stood, made for the door.

“Really? Easy as that? You’re just cool with it?” Beau said, disbelieving.

They looked at her coolly. “You won’t join the Qun, so we break your mind or we kill you. Whatever comes first. I’ll be back in the morning, Beauregard.” Their eyes glinted.

The door slammed shut, and Beau was left with her pounding pulse and the roar of the ocean.

  
  


Okay. So. Choices. Not really any, actually, but that’s what you learn about the Qun, isn’t it? They don’t make choices.

Beau… does not want to die. She’s alone and freezing and in pain and alone and she’s always kind of been, but Andraste’s mercy she  _ doesn’t want to die.  _ The mind breaking thing? Also not fun! Not sounding fun either!

She wonders why they left her alive in the first place. Why she’s tied here in this tiny room with that stupid lamp that makes a clicking noise every so often, when the ship sways right and something it in shifts, instead of dead in the wreckage of the dockside warehouse, left to drown or her skull bashed or something. Instead, she gets to ponder her mortality into the late hours of the night. 

She doesn’t think anyone’ll mourn her, anyway. Tori hates her. Her dad’ll just be glad to be rid of her. Thinking of her dad—it doesn’t prompt the same fury it usually does. Just this sick sadness that leaves her colder than she was before, if it was possible.

She doesn’t want to die. Not yet. She feels like she’s barely lived.

  
  


The elf eventually returns, but it’s been longer than a day. Beau’s pretty sure anyway. There isn’t a window, but the lamp has long since burned out, and her throat is dry and stomach screaming for water. She hears the door click open, and hisses against the suddenly light as they revive the lantern.

“Weird that you use a staff,” Beau says, voice scratchy. “I’ve been thinking about that, and you fight a lot like a Tevinter. That’s kind of weird. You really a Qunari?”

They grab her by the back of the neck, and Beau snarls and bits their arm. They’ve got a skin of water in the other hand, and they force her to drink, and Beau’s glad for the water maybe, but she could’ve fucking said. Or let her use her hands. They pull back and Beau coughs and retches up a mouthful bile and water down her front.

“You’re an asshole, you know?” She says weakly.

  
  


The cycle continues on like that for a while. Beau isn’t the type of woman who cries and so she’ll take it to her grave that she never does that. 

She’s not sure how long it goes on, but it’s not always the elf who comes back—in fact, after that time, it usually isn’t—but they stay just long enough to bring her back from the bring of death and then leave her with her thoughts and the infuriating, incessant sway of the boat.

Beau hears things, sometimes. Her dad sternly calling her name, the way her staff instructor used to say the word parchments. Snippets of ancient Tevene, memorized in old tomes of magic.  _ Fulmen, catena fulgur, vestibulum cavea. _

Sometimes she’ll see silhouttes and shapes move right in front of her, or she’ll see faces, half illuminated and twisted. She dreams of demons, too. She isn’t sure if she’s actually dreaming in the Fade or if her fear, but she thinks she sees shrouded demons reaching into her with cold hands, or beautiful horned things holding her chin. Then she wakes up, terrified.

More often, she just sits there. And aches. And thinks. Alone.

  
  


Clara used to sing to her when she was really little. Like, too little to remember much of anything. But toddler-Beau was terrified of thunder, and her mom would sing to her then, when she was young enough for such a fear to be acceptable. 

She doesn’t remember any of the words, just snatches of the melody. There’s a storm at sea, Beau can tell by the violent heave of the ship and that cracking roar, and she hears snippets of the melody in her ears, and she screams her throat raw.

  
  


She’s not sure when, but at some point, it’s the elf who finally returns. Beau has had a lot of time to think. She coughs. “I’ve, uh, thought about those choices. A bit. Joining the Qun, what’s that like?”

The corner of their mouth twitches, and Beau suddenly decides she liked it better when they didn’t emote.


	2. Chapter 1

Tevinter was warm, but Par Vollen was warmer. The wind blew hot and dry, the sand was scorching, but Beau fit right in with her hatred of sleeves and shirts that covered her midriff. 

They didn’t have magic to cool their buildings, because—Beau doesn’t like thinking about why, but they used these wind towers instead, tall spires made of bars stack on top of the structures. They seemed to work better, anyway, and kept the archives nice and cool.

“If you would set those there, thank you,” the head archivist, a blonde elf with thin wrists, calls out. Beau drops the box of files with a thump. He sighs, eyes closing, and she rolls her eyes.

“With care, please, those are precious documents. The works by Vassronat, if you could take those to section A-4, s-V, that would be wonderful.”

Beau, begrudgingly, obliges. She can’t believe Dairon saved her just for a fucking desk job.

They keep a well-stocked archive here, though it’s off-limits to read. Which is bullshit, but, they gotta mandate what the public consumes. If they don’t, they end up with Qunari who have all these strange ideas, like cravings for frilly Orlesian cakes or Fereldan independence. Beau’s not bitter. Why would she be bitter? You’re bitter. Fuck you.

She’s been here for maybe 3 weeks, doing library work, of all things. She works for the head archivist, who doesn’t have a name, because that’s the way it is under the Qun, but the title for his position is Zeenoth, so that’s what she calls him. If she could read the books, maybe it would be better, but she just… fetches books for him. 

He compiles reports for the Tamassrans. Beau always hated essays, but she’d prefer it over the boredom.

Then again, could be worse. Could be worse.

As she starts to place the books, sliding the bookend to the left, she pauses. The covers are unmarked, though the spine is written in Qunlat and seemingly numbered. They’re of uniform length, about half an inch thick and 4 inches long. Small books. 

Beau glances around, then flicks open one of the books, drawing her thumb along the surprisingly delicate paper. Also surprisingly, it’s not written in Qunlat like the spine. Beau snaps the book shut and shoves it into the back of her belt, where it’s obscured by her vest.

She makes her way, casually, back to Zeenoth.

“Ah, there you are! If you could take these Eripke novels to S-5, s-E, sss-Heavy Restriction type-B, that would be wonderful.”

“If you could take that stick out of your ass, that would be wonderful,” Beau mutters under her breath.

“What was that?”

“No problem.” She replied loudly. “I’ll be right on that.”

  
  


So starts a habit of petty book theft. She always returns them, anyway. Some of her illicit readings are boring as dirt, but some are interesting. There’s a  _ lot  _ of journals. Like, a lot. 

She’s really starting to wonder if everyone in Thedas keeps a journal and no one told her about it. She considers starting one, but she doesn’t have any blank paper, and she’s not about to start annotating the books.

Or maybe she is, actually. Beau pauses, mid-thought, and looks at the page thoughtfully. A treatise on the merits of green elfroot as opposed to dried elfroot in medicinal application.

When she subtly slips the book back into place, there’s a footnote remarking on dried elfroot’s virtues when smoked.

  
  


“Could you deliver this letter for me?” Zeenoth asks, polite as ever, and Beau groans. She’s come to realize he probably won’t report her for being a shit, and has taken it as permission.

He sighs. “Yeah, obviously I’m going to do it.” Beau snaps. “Do you have an actual address for me this time?”

Zeenoth pauses, and Beau groans louder this time.

“Par Vollen is not a difficult city to navigate!” He protests. “It will be easy to find. Go down our street to your left for three blocks, turn left, go straight ahead for another six blocks, take another left, and it should be the third building to your right. There will be a sign out front reading Shas’koth.”

“What’s that mean?”

“There is not a precise translation in common,” he says slowly.

“What about Tevene?” She interrupts.

He gives her a look. He is tired when he says, “I’ll happily answer your questions, but you must allow me to do so. Shas’koth It refers to a place where money is kept. Not,” he hastily adds when Beau opens her mouth to interject, “like a bank. As we have no need for currency, it is a storage facility through which we send requests for external imports with nations that do require currency. It’s only really used by,” he gestures, “places like ours, where we curate a number of foreign subjects.”

“So if you wanted a horse from Orlais, you’d ask them for gold?”

“I… yes, I suppose. We’d submit the request after having received permission from the Viddashasa, who would tell us where to have the money sent, then we would give them the permission form and they would send the money to the aforementioned location, likely a ship of some kind. I’m looking to acquire books on the Third Blight, not a horse, but the same method applies.”

“Wow.” Beau leans back. “Lot of effort to buy a book.”

“It’s actually quite efficient.”

“Where do they get the money in the first place?”

“Now, please deliver this letter.”

“What happened to happily answering my questions, huh?”

Zeenoth rubs the bridge of his nose. “Not every question you ask has an answer you need to know. The letter, please?”

Beau rolls her eyes, snatches up the letter and leaves, squinting into the sunset. It dyes everything a bright, bloody, beautiful red, and she stops for a moment, staring.

Then she runs the errand for the nerd, because that’s what her life is, apparently.

  
  


Beau figures out how to open her window quietly so that she can slip out. Through some acrobatics and careful maneuvering, she is able to slip out at night. She’s aware this is much more dangerous than sneaking out of her dad’s house, but she’s got to start moving. There’s only so much company books can keep her. She even found a blank notebook and started journaling. Yeah, she’s that far gone.

So, on the night she turns 18, she absconds.

It becomes something of a nightly habit. If reading can’t calm her nerves, she goes on a walk. Helps her learn to navigate the city, anyway, when she starts to take her journal with her, and scratches out a basic map. It’s actually a really shitty map, but she’s gotta do something.

She sticks close enough to the archives that she can return if trouble arises, but it typically doesn’t. If you’re out this late, you’ve got a reason—no vagabonds or aimless in Par Vollen. In a weird way, she respects that.

But much more prominently, she cannot and will not stay in one place, because she’ll go insane. That much was proven by her  _ fucking converting to the Qun,  _ anyway. She walks to excise the bitter taste it leaves in her mouth.

Zeenoth seems to appreciate the improvement in her mood, so she sees no reason to stop.

She stays close to the archives so she doesn’t get lost and can make it back fast if she needs to.

Unfortunately, Beau has this great habit of finding trouble wherever she goes, and one night, her stroll is interrupted by fast, hard footsteps. Adrenaline lances through her and, acting on instinct, she ducks into an alley, pressing her back against the wall and crouching in the shadows.

A Qunari woman strides past, hand tightly pressing something to her side, and she’s gone before Beau can catch more than a glimpse of long silver hair and horns that curl back, like a Highland Ravager.

Beau sits in the alley and thinks, heart pounding. She’s got no reason to be suspicious, she reasons. This wasn’t like Kamordah, where she could have immediately, and safely, assumed someone was up to illicit activities. In the Qun, everyone has a purpose and a role, and everyone has what they need to fulfill those.

No smuggling, because there’s no money in it. No need to steal food, because everyone is fed. Everyone has shelter. Everyone is employed. Sickness is taken care of, without exorbitant expense or shitty doctors. She supposes it could be drugs or something. People everywhere like a good high, probably.

But more probable than anything else, that woman was just fulfilling her own purpose. Nothing else.

Still, something sticks. Something about the way she walked, about the thing she was holding, that Beau couldn’t quite see. It rattles around in her head for the next week, and she may have been able to forget it, but it  _ happens again. _

Beau’s on her way back to the archives, and the night is still and humid—nights are freezing in the desert, but something about the island weather keeps it from getting as cold as it always did back home, so it’s barely noticeable. 

A figure rounds the corner, and Beau nearly stops dead when she sees the silhouette of her Ravager horns. No, shit, fuck, gotta keep moving, like its nothing at all, because its nothing at all.

Beau keeps walking, purposeful, like she’s got somewhere to be. The woman does too, less frantic than the last time. She nods at Beau as they pass. Beau turns the corner, waits a few seconds, then turns around and glances back down the street.

The lady’s still going. On an impulse, Beau slips silently after her, ducking into alleys and hiding where she can, nearly losing track of the lady entirely. She’s shifty, and paranoid, so it makes it difficult for Beau to follow, but she somehow manages. She follows her all the way to the Shas’koth, and watches her disappear into a side entrance.

When she doesn’t emerge for a few minutes, Beau’s nerves get the best of her, and she hastily makes her way back to the archives.

  
  


“So,” Beau starts, as she organizes a new shipment of poncy Orlesian lectures while Zeenoth scratches away at a report, “Do all the businesses here operate on hours, or is it a by-need basis?”

“Businesses isn’t quite how I’d put it,” Zeenoth says with a frown.

“Ugh, you know what I mean.”

“They do, yes. Everyone must head home eventually. It is an odd question.” He briefly glances at her. Beau waves her hands irritably.

“I just meant, like. Obviously bakeries close down in the evening and stuff, but if like, a post office and they’ve got an important message to deliver, or like, the shas’koth, I dunno, do they keep a night crew?”

Zeenoth stops this time, and tilts his head. “I imagine if there is an emergency, it is taken care of, but no, the post office and shas’koth do not keep a night crew, nor do other such facilities.”

“Cool. Was just wondering.”

He returns to his report, bemused.

  
  


She sees the woman twice in the next week, follows her both times, and on the second, the woman leaves a folded note on a windowsill. Which is definitely,  _ definitely  _ fucking weird.

Beau watches, on a rooftop this time because no one ever bothers to look up, and scans the streets, but sees no one coming to collect it right this moment. She grips the edge of the roof, and slides down, scraping the side of her thumb. She grimaces slightly, and darts over to the letter, excitement making her jittery. This could be the answer to the mystery. Ordinary windowsill, nothing weird about it. She grabs it, fast, and opens it.

She groans aloud in disappointment. It’s all in Qun. She remembers where she is, and startles, looking around in panic, but there’s no one. She can’t steal the letter, or they’ll know somethings up. She fumbles in her pocket and yanks out her journal.

  
  


She flips past the shitty maps, and in an urgent hand, copies down as many of the strange letters as she can. It’s not a long letter, thank the Maker.

Beau folds the original note and slides it back onto the windowsill where it was, half tucked beneath the panel.

She leaves, fast, journal burning in her pocket.

  
  


So now she’s got a copy of a letter in Qun, and nothing to do with it. It’s frustrating, making progress and still having gotten  _ nowhere.  _ She doesn’t even have proof there’s something shady happening, just a vague feeling and the mysterious actions of someone who could just be a postman.

Beau doesn’t like letting things go, though, so she’s not going to.

Qunlat is a well-guarded language, and the Qunari don’t like outsiders learning it, even their Viddathari. For all that, they keep such meticulous records that Beau refuses to believe there isn’t a lexicon somewhere in this archive.

She figures it’s in the restricted sections, Beau just has to figure out where. It’s mostly works of foreign fiction, compendiums of Orlesian Theatre and the like, or religious texts. There’s at least 17 copies of the Chant in there. Lot of rulers made lots of alterations in their days to better support their agendas.

“Alright, these go to S-4, s-T, sss-Heavy Restriction type-A, I would be most grateful.”

Beau’s head snaps up. “No problem.” She grabs the stack of books and dashes off into the archives.

“Uh—alright—don’t break anything, please?”

“Yep!” She calls back.

There’s not much time to check while she’s back there, but she makes use of it. She shoves the books into place—multiple volumes by Tethras, probably full of beheadings and angry women who like justice—and scans the shelves. This one’s all in Common. She ducks into the shelf behind it, and that’s a mix of Rivaini and old Alamarri, of all things.

The next shelf, and the shelf after that, yield no results, and she’s running out of time. The next shelf is a language she’s never even heard of, much less Qunlat. She grits her teeth, and begrudgingly returns, irritated.

It’s as they’re closing down for the night that Beau sees it. Zeenoth is half standing by his desk, just finishing whatever it was he was writing, when he looks at a sheaf of paper and frowns. He digs through a drawer and withdraws a book in Qunlat, then flips through it, glancing between it and the paper. Beau cranes her head around and sees the paper is half in common, and half Qunlat. She freezes, and bites back a grin.

Zeenoth finds the word he’s looking for with a quiet “Ah.” He finishes his report, tucks it into a file, then turns, smiling at Beau.

“I believe that’s it for the day. Thank you for all your assistance!”

“Yeah, uh, you too.”

  
  


His desk isn’t even locked.

It takes Beau 3 nights crouched by his desk, careful not to touch anything but the book, to painstakingly transcribe the letter, because it doesn’t match up to any words, because it’s written in  _ fucking code.  _ She wants to scream.

It plagues her thoughts. She’s itching to finally get out again tonight and look for the woman, see if she’ll drop another clue. The letter plagues her thoughts in the meantime. She sneaks it down with her into the archives, and examines it when she can, trying to make sense of the jumbled letters. She only succeeds in giving herself a headache.

She’s getting really sick of the scratching of Zeenoth’s quill, too.

The door swings open, the bell above it tinkling gently. Beau looks up, and startles so badly that she knocks her knee on desk and sends everything on it flying. She curses and rubs her knee.

“That was unnecessary.” Dairon says coolly.

“Hello, Dairon! Good to see you well.” Zeenoth greets with a smile. He tosses Beau an amused expression, and she kind of wants to punch him.

“And you, Zeenoth. I’d like to speak to you in private.” They stride past him into the main archives, and Zeenoth follows, though he pauses and tells Beau to please not break anything. She flips him off.

Beau returns to squinting at the note. She wonders what Dairon would make of it.

That’s a thought.

Only, here’s the thing:

1, Dairon’s fucking scary, and some kind of super shady government person,

2, she’d have to admit to sneaking out at night,

3, stealing books,

4, and generally being a punk,

5, which Beau has always been, but she can’t imagine Dairon would just let that fly.

Then again, would Dairon let some shady woman delivering coded notes fly, either? Maybe the good deed Beau is (probably) doing would outweigh the bad. Maybe Beau wouldn’t have to work in the archives anymore.

She knows she wants to leave, but when she stops for a moment and looks around, she thinks she would actually miss it. There’s something comforting about the smell of old paper. She hates Zeenoth, but… she maybe  _ doesn’t  _ hate Zeenoth. Just a bit. He’s nice. Sometimes.

And it’s quiet, and Beau has a purpose, a role that she fulfills that’s boring as hell but she’s not failing anyone.

Beau, and this is unrelated, is horribly, horribly lonely. Beau, and this is unrelated, is horribly, horribly homesick for a place she hated.

She suddenly wants to cry, and scrubs viciously at her eyes, mentally berating herself for having stupid emotions.

She releases a shaky breath and hold her face in her hands, leaning her elbows on the desk. Regardless of anything else: this can’t be what Dairon saved her for. This can’t be what she was held in that ship for. Anyone could do that job. There must have been  _ something  _ that Dairon knew about her that made her decide Beau was better off alive.

Or maybe that’s just how the Qun treated every possible convert.

The sound of voices heralds the return of Dairon and Zeenoth, and Beau shoves the note back in her pocket, pulling her face back into its customary scowl.

“You will hear from us soon. Thank you for this,” Dairon tells him. She drops something on his desk. It’s a little white paper parcel. “Brought you these. Good luck,” She says dryly, and turns to leave, sparing a glance and a nod for Beau.

“That’s very sweet of you, Dairon. I could use it,” Zeenoth responds with a laugh.

Beau feels like she’s on the edge of a precipice.

The feeling is stupid, because it’s not that dramatic, and Beau says quickly, “Wait, Dairon—I had something I wanted to ask you about.”

“She’s full of questions,” Zeenoth murmurs, looking up at Dairon with an expression she can’t read.

Their expression isn’t any more discernable. “Is it going to piss me off.”

“No. Maybe,” Beau rolls her eyes. “No, just listen to me on this one. In the archives. Listen to me in the archives.”

Dairon, slowly, follows Beau into the archives.

“What is it?” She says, surprisingly receptive.

“So.” Beau flexes her hands. “Dunno if you know this, but I was kind of a delinquent back home. Not used to staying put for long. So I started going on walks around the block at night, and—”

“Get to the point,” she growls, and  _ now  _ she’s irritated.

“I am! I saw this lady—” Beau explains the plot, concisely as she can without making the woman seem less suspect, and shows Dairon the copy of note. Dairon takes it, scans it, folds it and puts it in their own pocket. Beau scowls.

“The Qun functions on rules.” They say, looking at her intensely, seriously. Beau glares back. “People are selfish creatures, and without lines keeping us in place, we destroy each other. Orlesian politics crush everyone but the wealthy, Ferelden’s lack of infrastructure left it in tatters when the blight hit. I don’t need to say anything about Tevinter.”

“Because you’re Tevinter, too?” Beau guesses, and their gaze turns steely and sharp, ears flicking back. Beau keeps her glare steady, much as she wants to flinch beneath the weight of her cold eyes.

“It’s like that all over Thedas, famine, plague, war and death. The Qun sees this, and functions on _ rules,  _ because we know that’s what separates self-destructions and progress, civilization and savagery.”

Then they smile a bit, and something shifts, but Beau isn’t sure what. “Still hate it when you do that,” she mutters, nervous. “You don’t have a smiley face, you should not be trying. I can say that because I’m bad at it too.”

“Systems need keepers. You’re smart, Beauregard—” Beau hasn’t heard her name in so long, it sounds nearly foreign— “and when we teach you that discipline? We’ll make something of you yet. I’ll look into this. Stay inside.” They briefly clap her shoulder, hands like ice. Beau jerks back, bumping a book shelf, and barely manages to catch a heavy tome that falls out. When she looks up, Dairon’s gone.

She wanders back into the main entry. Zeenoth has unwrapped the paper parcel. It’s full of round red candies. He’s smiling as he works.

  
  


Dairon slammed her back against the wall, their staff grating against Beau’s in a way that made her ears ring. She grit her teeth and twisted her staff, sweeping at their feet. They dodged back, and their staffs slammed together twice more. She managed to twist her staff beneath Dairon’s, and in a fluid movement, used the leverage to wrench it from her.

Dairon didn’t pause, and Beau dropped her own staff to counter their flurry of blows. It was fists now, cool, yeah, Beau kinda brought that upon herself. Beau slammed her knee into Dairon’s gut, and Dairon grunted, faltering for just a moment.

Unfortunately, it was just for a moment, and though Beau pressed her advantage, Dairon soon had her flat on her back, elbow dug in her windpipe.

“You’ve gotten better.” She remarks. Beau wheezes, and Dairon pulls back. Beau sits up, coughing, and flashes them a grin.

“I’m gonna kick your ass one of these days, old lady,” She promises, and Dairon cocks an eyebrow.

Beau doesn’t know what happened to the silver haired woman with Ravager horns. All she knows is that her lead panned out, and the Ben-Hassrath decided she was more useful in their ranks rather than as Zeenoth’s unpaid intern. She’s lucky, and she knows it, because she’s seen the Viddath-Bas and knows what happens to unlucky people who don’t follow the rules, and that’s worse than death.

There are three main aspects to the governing of the Qun: the priesthood, the matriarchy, and the military. The Ben-Hassrath, ‘Heart of the Many,’ belong to the priesthood. Beau is  _ not  _ a fucking priest, thank you.

She’s spent a year and a half as Ben-Hassrath so far. By now, there’s a measure of disciple that’s been beat into her, and she doesn’t entirely hate it. She knows how to shape her anger into a weapon as precise as a scalpel, she finds problems and cuts them out. She’s not been at it long, but she’s doing alright. She’s doing alright. She’s gotta be doing alright. She passed her 19 th birthday bloody and half dead on a stretch of unnamed coast in Tevinter. It’s a mixed bag.

She likes that there are no assholes who punch down to get ahead under the Qun. She doesn’t like that personal freedom is consider some kind of a sin, but regardless of what she likes or dislikes, she doesn’t have much of a choice anyway.

“There’s a Dreadnought docking tomorrow,” Dairon tells her, and Beau can tell by their tone this is going to be a job. They take up their staff and crackle their knuckles, sinew in their arms shifting in a way that reminds her of a large cat. “You were converted a week ago out of Ficili, former soldier in the Vint’s navy, and you were assigned to the Dreadnought as a result.”

“Cool,” Beau said slowly, “except I know fuck all about boats.” And hasn’t been on many jobs yet, but Dairon already knows that.

“You’ll figure it out.” She says flatly.

“Why am I going on a Dreadnought, anyway?”

Dairon’s fingers tap against their staff, and their mouth twists unpleasantly. “Several former crewmates were sent on shore-leave after a recent run,” they say lowly, “and one of them swears there’s a Saarebas on board. Hiding. He says he saw someone casting magic, but in the chaos, didn’t see who.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“His report has been delivered to your room. Find them. Tell us who. We’ll direct you from there.”

“What’s gonna happen to them?”

“The proper procedure, or death.” Dairon looks at her sharply, and chill drags fingers down her spine. “There’s not a third option. Don’t fuck this up.”

_ Because you come from mage country, little Beauregard, and we don’t know if you’re fully loyal. This is to figure you out just as much as the Saarebas.  _ Dangerous thing.

“Give me some fucking credit,” Beau bites back, and leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been thinking of this for.... months...... as just like a weird idea and then I realized I could....... literally just write it, like. I’ve got to power to do that. So we will. Just Beau so far but we’re gonna meet the captain soon :)


End file.
